Dreaming Of You And Handcuffs
by ThingsThatNeedThings
Summary: 'BBC Sherlock' JohnxSherlock fanfiction. When John wakes up to coffee, handcuffs and a note from Sherlock, the sex is immenent.


**Dreaming of You (and Handcuffs)**

SherlockxJohn fanfiction

(BBC Sherlock)

They were running, again, running, holding onto one another's hands, hiding the fact that the touch was all that brought them the determination they needed to get away. They were tired, but that didn't matter. Sherlock could hear John's nervous breaths, and he had to bite his tongue not to say, "Don't worry, John; I I've got you." John could feel it, the fear, the love… He wanted to run away with Sherlock forever.

But no matter how much he clung to the dream, he couldn't stop himself from waking up. The perfect scene shattered before his eyes and he felt the cold duvet, the frozen sheets – he was alone. John didn't open his eyes, clutching for the strands of Sherlock's hair, but he was out of reach, gone, deep in John's sleep.

With a sigh he put his hand to his forehead and forced himself to sit up, swinging himself tediously out of bed and letting his feet drop to the chilly floor. He stumbled through sleep to the kitchen, and then froze.

John blinked, unsure what to think, what to feel.

There, on the kitchen table, mocking him, lay a cup of coffee, and a pair of open handcuffs.

Steam rose from the coffee and greeted him warmly, drawing him in. He rubbed his eyes, certain he was seeing things, but it was real. In fact, there was a note there as well. Cautious but curious, John stepped forward and wrapped his hand around the mug, smiling at the smooth heat passing through him, and looked at the note:

"_Good morning. I hope you've rested well. – SH"_

John frowned. Clearly it was some sort of code; Sherlock wouldn't just leave a note to say 'good morning'. He turned it over, scanned it closely, but there was nothing else besides a faint scent of aftershave. With a shake of his head he tried to piece it together.

_Good morning. Coffee. Rested well… Handcuffs… And where is he? _John wondered, glancing around, before thirstily drinking down the coffee. When he opened his eyes he felt much more awake, and instantly assumed Sherlock had drugged him. _I bet it's another of his experiments. _

"Sherlock…" he mumbled, figuring that the man had to be around someplace, watching him, silently amused by his idiocy.

There was no reply.

"Sherlock, get out here, now; I know what's going on."

"…Do you?" the voice came from nowhere, deep and dark and mysterious.

John scoffed. "Come on; what's in the coffee?"

"Caffeine." There was a pause. "See, you don't know, do you, John?"

Just then, out of nowhere, Sherlock strode in, eying John closely. His eyes sparkled with intent, his body soft in the morning haze.

John gulped, unable to look away, drawing a deep breath. "Oh…" he trembled.

Sherlock smirked. "I was hoping you'd say that."

He stepped forward; John stepped back. Sherlock seized the handcuffs. "Payback time," Sherlock explained, eyebrows raised, chest wide with control.

John's mind flitted back to the violin incident. How Sherlock had begged. How he had been in control. How the balance of power had completely shifted due to one item.

And now the balance was shifting back.

"D-don't…" John stammered, but his back was to the fridge. His palms were sweating and his heart was fluttering wildly as he managed to control his breathing. Still his eyes couldn't take in enough of Sherlock's naked body, arcing towards him, drawing nearer and nearer…

Sherlock ran his cool fingertips down Watson's cheek and neck, eyes locked on his, gently biting his lip. John fidgeted and bit his tongue to stop himself from panting; leaning close to Sherlock, feeling his skin against him and suddenly realising his clothes were much too intrusive. Sherlock was way ahead of him, slipping down his loose black trousers, but not before teasing his hand around John's crotch, all too delicately. John gasped and willed him onward, but he knew Sherlock would take his time, so slow, leaving him begging and pleading for more.

And John would. He would get down on his knees if he had to.

Just then Sherlock kissed him intensely, forcing him back to the fridge, so close to him that John moaned and tugged him closer still, desperate for him. Sherlock was only too happy to oblige, catching his tongue and drawing it out, nipping at him, pressing their manhood together, wrapping his leg into John's and then-

With great effort Sherlock pulled himself back, panting slightly, and stepped back. John felt himself pulled forward, but not only by desire. He lifted his arm.

Handcuffed.

Sherlock smiled. "Come."

"Oh, I will…"

Sherlock lead him up into _their_ bedroom, John following behind, mesmerised by Sherlock's perfect body – the way his shoulder blades jutted out like where his wings should have been, the way his arms were strong and muscular, the way his back dipped like the pool of the gods. His stride was elegant, controlled, purposeful. John would have followed him to the ends of the earth… And yet the chains held them together. John couldn't help but tremble as he thought of what Sherlock would do to him.

_Payback, _was all he could imagine, but he couldn't possibly know what went on in Sherlock Holmes' head.

No matter what there was no way of resisting the dark haired man; he would take John, do with him whatever he wanted, and John would savour ever second of it.

The door opened to the hot glow of candles, hundreds of them, like fans around the pitch. The bed lay there untouched and tempting, and before John could even think properly Sherlock twisted his wrist and threw him down onto the soft mattress. John heard his own breath and heartbeat, pleading Sherlock with his eyes.

With a click Sherlock was free. With another John was chained to the bed. With each click, John exhaled loudly, fearful and excited and aroused beyond return.

"Sh-Sherlock…" he managed, and he gulped, trying to shut his eyes. "Now."

He made a soft chuckle. "Patience, dear Watson," he whispered, pulling John's long-sleeved grey shirt off his head and leaving it dangling on the links of the handcuffs. Slipping on top of him, he wrapped his hand to the back of John's neck and made him sit up and look at him, touching their foreheads together to feel the sweat on John. One finger hit a pressure point sharply and John's hips buckled as he whined, helpless to Sherlock's knowledge of male anatomy.

"Please," he hissed through clamped jaw. "Please Sherlock…"

"Wait," Sherlock mumbled quietly, amazed by his experiments with classic Holmes curiosity. He took John's hip and squeezed hard in just the right spot and Watson yelped and panted, feeling weaker than ever and almost passing out.

Just then Mrs Hudson called up to them. Neither of the men had the patience to listen to her ramblings, and Sherlock hardly had the willpower not to go for it and properly make John his; painfully, Sherlock stood up, breathing heavily, and headed for the door.

"Sh-Sherlock! You can't leave me here…" John begged.

Sherlock turned, straining himself, and then he replied. "You're right. I can't."

In seconds they were rocking with one another, fitting together, kissing and biting at one another, ravenous and wild. Sherlock held John down and seized him, completely overpowering him yet losing power over himself as he moaned gently, pulling John closer and closer as he slipped his hand back and forth quickly, tenderly. He felt John's member burning in his hand, felt his own leg twitch and John's flinches against him; his throat catching as he gasped for breath and his eyes flickering as the feeling over took them both.

"Quietly," Sherlock reminded, just in time. "Mrs Hudson…"  
>"Fuck Mrs Hudson," John panted.<p>

And with that his he thrust his hips into Sherlock's and his head back and climaxed louder than ever before, Sherlock close behind, concentration slipping and knees weak. Together they found themselves unable to control themselves and together they released their passion in an explosion of lust and desire, before they both fell to the bed, exhausted, spent.

Sherlock shut his eyes and laughed, his world spinning and unable to understand the warm feeling spreading through his body. He looked over to his blonde-haired companion and kissed him on the cheek. He reached up and – slowly, almost begrudgingly – undid the cuffs and let them fall to the pillow. He touched his lips to John's chained hand before realising that too, and sealing the deal with a sweet peck on the lips.

John couldn't resist and pulled Sherlock in again, kissing him strongly, feeling Sherlock's breath on his cheek and feeling the love seep from one to the other and fill them both.

When they stopped they gazed upon each other, for seconds, minutes, just studying one another. Sherlock's dark curls tussled and twisted into a masterpiece; his eyes shone with icicle beauty; his lips smiled as though happiness was a new concept. John's sandy hair was messy, unsurprisingly, and Sherlock liked the rugged look of him; the way his eyes glistened with hazelwood innocence and sturdy certainty and the loyalty of man's best friend; his face taut with worry and hardships but also thankfulness and freedom.

"Boys!" Mrs Hudson cried. "I know I shouldn't but I'm coming up!"

John's face paled and his smile dropped. "Sherlock," he warned, and his partner blinked a few times then jumped up, grabbing his royal blue silken dressing gown and pulling it on with a swish of fabric against skin. He glared at the bed sheet for a second and then indicated for John to take it. John almost laughed out loud, but instead wrapped himself in Sherlock's sheet and followed him to the door.

"Stay here for a moment. She'll think you're just waking up," Sherlock whispered and stepped out onto the stairs before disappearing into the living room. John listened in closely.

"Sherlock, what is going on! I heard shouting and thought-"

"Calm down, Mrs Hudson. It's just another normal day in 221B Baker Street." _Or how it will be from now on…_

"Who's up there? Sherlock, what have you done?"

"Nothing." _John._

John rounded into the room and faked a yawn. "Everything alright?" he asked.

Mrs Hudson looked baffled.

Sherlock looked suddenly irritated. "See what you've done? You've woken John with your pointless worrying. Perhaps you're hearing things."

"I tell you, I heard pleading…"

John nervously licked his lip; force of habit. "P-pleading? No, Mrs Hudson. I can swear that nothing happened up there." _Except for the best sex ever._

Mrs Hudson shook her head. "Maybe I am hearing things… Alright… Anything you boys need?"

"No thank you, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock told her. _Just leave; I'm starting to want John again._

"Alright…"

As they heard the door slam, Sherlock threw John onto the table and kissed him feverishly.


End file.
